


this time is mine

by kuro49



Category: Batman: Arkham Knight Genesis (Comics), DCU
Genre: Dubious Consensual Somnophilia, Jason Todd is Arkham Knight, M/M, Riding, Rutting, Switching
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-24
Updated: 2020-04-24
Packaged: 2021-03-02 03:07:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,353
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23738065
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kuro49/pseuds/kuro49
Summary: Arkham Knight uses his right-hand man for a right hand to get off.
Relationships: Jason Todd/Slade Wilson
Comments: 8
Kudos: 138
Collections: SladeRobin Weekend 2020





	this time is mine

**Author's Note:**

> for the day 1: sugar daddy prompt of the sladerobin mini event but only in the context of akjay being slade's boss lmao

04:54AM

Slade is lying prone against the mattress, taking stock of the situation without twitching a muscle at the first dip in it. 

The numbers displayed in bright red on the clock set on his nightstand is still reaching out for five in the morning. Slade doesn't wake up completely only because there is no threat to it. The creak of the bedroom door, the fall of the silent footsteps, the release of his leveled breathing all coming into a single amalgamation for Slade to know it's Jason.

There is no intrusion to the Arkham Knight's presence even if there is no initial invitation in place.

But Slade's time is bought by the millions, and he is his for the full duration of it. How the kid decides to make use of his time is really his choice.

Slade has figured enough of the kid out to know not to expect any finesse out of it, whatever he decides. And that's probably a good thing because he doesn't get any when Jason drags the waistband of Slade's sweatpants down over his ass before he is climbing up on top of him, settling the bulk of of his weight against the back of Slade's thighs when he kneels over him then sits, pinning him to the bed.

It effectively paints a pretty obvious picture what Jason is here for.

A low deep groan into the pillows, and Slade finally turns his head, cracking open his eye to catch the messy chopped up bangs swaying in front of Jason's squeezed shut eyes as he starts up a pace with each uncoordinated shove of his hips forwards, then back. No words, not even a slip of a single cute or sweet noise that Slade could indulge in.

Instead, Slade asks. "Am I still on the clock?"

Jason's jaw is clenched hard and tight, molars grinding down as he ruts his cock between Slade’s buttocks, not taken aback that the object of his masturbation is very much awake under him.

“Yes.” he tells him, and Slade feels the head of Jason's erection catching at his rim, precum and what’s probably just a little bit of spit keep the friction slick, from burning with every jerk of those hips.

“Huh," Slade is not one to feel tired at all but when a yawn comes, he lets it take over for that pleasant crack at his jaw to say, almost nonchalant, "I didn’t know.”

Jason is still fully clothed and there is the cling of his tee pulling taut across his shoulders with every full body movement. His panting comes out harsh and quick but dragged out into near silent little things as he uses his right hand man as quite literally his right hand to get himself off. “Does it matter?” Jason asks, and he is unrestrained in his motions, the way his hands dig into Slade's flesh. On a weaker, lesser, easier man, he would be leaving livid bruises.

Slade doesn’t turn over. Instead, he stays still for Jason as sweat begins to gather at the small of his back. Maybe this should be a bigger deal, but it doesn't feel like it.

“Not really, I guess.”

Jason doesn’t answer, just chases an end for himself with that single-minded focus Slade has learned to recognize by now.

05:07AM

Slade pretty much dozes off until Jason is just about to finish. 

“It’s not going to matter if you put it in too.” Slade points out as Jason’s pace gets messier, stuttering at moments when he’s closed to the edge but not quite there yet. There is so much imprecision to it, it could almost be endearing if Slade's the kind of man to be endeared.

One hand at his hip, the other splayed out across his lower back, the blunt edges of Jason's nails dig in while his knuckles go pale with how hard his grip is. Jason pauses completely to ask: “You’re okay with that?” 

“Kid,” Slade starts, a hint of exasperation in that one word as he tries not to chortle at the question being asked _now_ when Jason came into his room, pulled back his sheets, and then dragged his pants down to use his ass to jerk one out. All without saying a word. “I’ll be just fine.”

Jason doesn’t insult either one of them by asking again. Jason can take a little pain, Slade can recover from that same pain. Slade can appreciate that as the kid simply follows through.

Jason doesn’t work a few fingers inside to stretch him out, simply pulls his hole apart with his thumbs, spreads him out just far enough to push the blunt head in. It’s a damn tight fit with Slade clenching down on him like a vice. The precum and spit hardly enough to help ease the stretch of Jason's cock, and it burns on the initial thrust the full way in. There is that edge of pain, but it is absolutely nothing at all compared to the threshold of what Slade can take.

Really, it is more enticing when it pulls a lovely whimper out of Jason as he pulls back until Slade’s hole is stretched around the widest part of his cock, the head making a lewd pop before he is fucking inside of Slade again. A rare thing really when Slade knows there’s not much that can get a visible reaction out of the kid. 

Jason isn’t gentle, more clumsy really but he is every bit eager when he leans forward, almost draping himself over Slade’s back and sinks his teeth down over the breadth of Slade’s shoulders. Biting down over the cotton of Slade's shirt hard enough to leave a wet imprint from his spit. He doesn’t draw blood, and it's not for a lack of trying. 

The Arkham Knight doesn’t make a bad boss even at his worst and most unreasonable. 

The man he presents when he stands in front of his militia is impressive, especially so when he’s got Deathstroke standing just behind him. The kid he becomes when he is out of every last bit of his armour is no less impressive when he is a true testament of survival. He is more horrid scars healed all wrong than actual skin, death would have been the kinder option by far if choice ever played into the games of a madman.

Rules were broken, and every consequence was to be felt by Jason alone by tenfold, hundredfold, thousandfold if anyone were there to count each inflicted pain.

When Slade shifts, he moves just enough for Jason to fuck into him at a better angle. 

05:13AM

When Jason comes, he comes with a soft low sound, bitten apart at the tip of his tongue. 

Strings of his cum pull from Slade’s hole to the head of Jason’s cock as he pulls out, sitting back on his hunches over Slade. Messy and sticky, and streaking release all over the place as he goes soft. He is still breathing hard, and his chest rises while his eyes trail over the sight of Deathstroke’s buttocks marked in his semen.

“If I was a whore, I’d be charging you extra for finishing inside.”

“Guess it’s a good thing I’m not paying for one.”

Jason moves off of Slade to pull his own pants up, and there is no embarrassment to each of his precise movements. It's not cute at all but if Slade's looking for something cute, he's not about to find it here. Slade doesn’t bother with cleaning up properly, just kicks off his sweatpants the rest of the way and wipes his back and ass and thighs too with it before he’s tossing it over the edge of the bed. Another thought, and he's got his own shirt over his head and thrown to the ground to join his pants.

With his other hand, he snags Jason easily by the waist before he can leave. It takes barely any strength at all with the kid still in his post-orgasmic state. He yanks him back down into the bed with him. This time, tucking up against him on the side of the mattress where the sheets are fresh and dry and clean.

Jason makes a sound that could be a protest but it’s barely even quarter past five in the fucking morning, and Slade’s not in any mood for it. 

“Sleep.” Slade tells him, a hint of warning to it when he rolls over just enough to pin Jason to the bed itself, it’s almost a miracle that the kid doesn't fight him on this too.

06:08AM

Slade manages to get in a pretty solid forty-five minutes of sleep before Jason wakes up again.

This time to Slade’s cock hard, and pressing up against the crevice where Jason’s groin meets his thigh. It's a rare thing when Jason doesn’t wake up all at once. Instead, he comes to bit by bit and by the time he does, he is opening his eyes to the sight of Deathstroke watching him.

“Time to return the favour, kid.” He greets him instead of any iteration of a good morning.

Jason is coherent but just barely when he is shaking his head to murmur: "Doesn’t work that way, I’m the one paying you.”

“Exactly, and I’m off the clock.”

Slade sits up just as Jason is rubbing at his eyes, and he drags Jason bodily up with him with an arm around his waist, the other just bracing at his shoulder blade. Jason doesn't let out a single noise, not a yelp or even a faint gasp like Slade was hoping for. But the kid rolls with it surprisingly easy, warm from sleep, the imprint of the pillow's creases over his brows. If Jason wanted to get away, it certainly isn't Slade's grip keeping him here at all. Their current exchange alone gives Jason more than enough chances, to count out on both hands, to run if that is what he decides. 

“No, you’re not.” Comes the answer, and Jason is firm with those words. His conviction unwavering even when his thighs are bracketing Deathstroke's hips, bringing his ass in the perfect position to sit right over Deathstroke's cock. "You're on my time."

Slade’s hand is guiding as Jason shifts, settles his full weight down over his very own right-hand man so he can feel the full size of Slade's erection rub up against him.

“Then I suggest my boss might wanna give me a hand so I can get back to work a lil’ faster, no?”

Jason presses his mouth together into a thin flat line, a furrow between his brows, head tilting to the side. It’s disconcerting, the way Slade barely even blinks in the face of his consideration. It’s more disconcerting still when Jason concludes that it is something close to _desire_ in that remaining eye. Like anyone could want him in any capacity at all, let alone Slade Wilson. A foreign concept really. 

Slade doesn't rush into it, he goes slow, broadcasts his intent for Jason to read, to anticipate, to fully feel the slide of a rough thumb across his cheekbone, just above where the J is cut into the skin, over the dusting of freckles framing the bright vicious green-blue of those eyes of his. 

“A hand.” Jason repeats after him, and Slade’s mouth pulls wide, shows the white gleam of his teeth before Jason is holding out his palm for a generous dollop of lubricant. 

06:12AM

Jason is brisk and rough with the preparation as he fingers himself. His expression is one of mild discomfort the entire time. Barely a couple of minutes in and he is already guiding the tip of Slade’s cock to his entrance. He pauses only because Slade keeps him from dropping down with hands at his hips, stilling him in his efficiency. 

“Even if you don't want to enjoy yourself, _I_ plan to.” Slade tells him, moving a hand from Jason’s hips to run his palm over the curve of his buttocks.

Dipping two fingers inside of the kid's hole as though he's checking how well Jason's prepared himself only to meet resistance, and Slade won't have that at all. A drizzle of a little more lube above Jason's crack, and it hits his skin cold, startling even as it slides down to where Slade has him split open on the tips of his fingers. He presses in slow, stretches them out slower. 

“This," Jason bites out with all the menace of a wrung out kitten as Slade inserts a third, " _aah—_ I-it's nothing.” 

There's a grin tilting Slade's mouth wayward at the hitch in Jason's voice, the falter in his words.

Slade doesn't scoff, doesn't even chuckle like he wants to, he just hums a low sound in acknowledgement and works Jason open at that near-glacial pace. It's like he's got all the time in the world when he doesn't rush through it. Slade figures it's a lot like taking a dump on company time if being on the Arkham Knight's retainer can be broken down into something as simple as skipping out on work in a bathroom stall. Slade's fingers squelch, obscene and loud in the quiet space between them as he spreads his fingers apart inside of him. He lets Jason pant next to his ear as he is massaging the rough callouses of his fingertips along the soft slick walls of Jason’s passage until he's looser than before. 

In the mess of scars and trauma, it’s easy to miss. 

How Jason goes a little bit of red, how the breath that comes rushing out of him on release is drawn thin and quiet, how he’s got freckles over the bridge of his nose too, not just a dusting like over his cheekbones but a generous sprinkle deliberate in their placement. 

A hand at the kid’s jaw and Slade is drawing him in even closer than ever before, a murmur as he waits for Jason to part his lips for a kiss: “C’mere, boy.”

When Slade pushes his tongue inside of Jason’s mouth, he slips his fingers out of him. His hands are still just guiding, and Jason is just as uncoordinated as when he climbed up on top of Slade and rutted against his ass and got himself off. It takes a few tries, a fumble when he is so wet between the legs before Jason gets the head of Slade’s cock popping inside of him.

And then a few more tries to actually work the full size of Slade to bury the whole way in. Like a kick to his midsection, the fit knocks the literal breath out of him, and it could bring the Arkham Knight on his knees if he wasn't already on them. Digging into the mattress where it meets the headboard, his knees knock while his thighs are kept wide apart as he rolls his hips and starts to ride the man in earnest.

Slade squeezes a hand down around Jason's ass, feels the way that gesture alone gets the boy to squeeze down on his cock in immitation, so tight and utterly sweet.

When Jason bites down on Slade's tongue, hard enough to draw blood, Slade relishes in that good-god pleasure in pain.

07:38AM

Their kisses have gone entirely too sloppy.

With Jason sucking at the tip of Slade's tongue, drool running down from the corner of his opened mouth. It's a lot messy and a bit desperate when Slade doesn't pull back, just keeps drawing Jason in with a firm tilting grip at the back of Jason's neck to deepen the kiss.

Jason has his eyes half lidded, his body on autopilot as he floats on some in between plane where it isn't quite pleasure, not after a third orgasm that had him coming dry as he keeps his pace working himself up and down on Slade's cock like this. But it is so far from pain as he knows it. And he has known pain for so long in so many intimate ways that this doesn't even register as anything at all.

“You’re exhausting.” Jason tells him, and there's a rough edge to it, like he's breathless. Or, maybe it's the whine to the tail end of his voice that makes Slade smirk. 

He is oversensitive and the muscles in his thighs quake at the repetition of the movement when he is lifting himself up on his shaking knees. His insides feel hot, burning on every drag as his rim seems to cling to the way Slade has him split right down the center on every drop. He is all about ready to be done with it but it seems like Slade has the endurance of nothing he's ever come face to face with when he hasn't even come once.

"When are you gon' get off already?" Jason asks and his chapped lips ache from kissing, his tongue feels heavy, and he's pretty sure Slade knows the inside of his own mouth better than himself at this point. He clenches down and there is a small bubble of satisfaction when he draws a low groan from the man he spent the last hour and half or so riding into the fucking mattress with not much else to show for.

"You feel too good, kid." Slade rumbles, pleased with the shiver that runs bodily through Jason when he gives an experimental thrust upwards. And he tells him with just as much conviction as Jason had. "Let me savour this."

If it was anyone else, this would probably be a cause for concern. Unnerving at the very least, but Jason only knows safety in a man that he can pay to keep the nightmares at bay. There is comfort to knowing the strict boundaries within their contract.

What Jason only has a vague idea of is this: Slade has seen his share of the bad, the ugly, the truly atrocious things in all his years as a mercenary of his caliber. He has brought an equal share of that into this world. And not much comes close to what Jason had been through. Slade's hands run across this body tortured to the brim of death. It leaves very little to the imagination when Slade can very literally trace where Jason was cut open to be filled back up with hate.

There is morbid fascination to it.

Sweat trails down the curve of Jason's spine, his shirt damp at the small of his back, Slade flicks his fingers over where Jason's nipples stand erect underneath the thin cotton shirt that earns him a small noise. There are splatters of his release soaked into the hem, but it's the pair of briefs still hanging off of an ankle, his pants a careless crumple at the end of the bed where Slade tossed it, that make up all of Jason in a way only Slade gets to see.

It's not vulnerability.

Slade's just not sure if he has the emotional capability to recognize what it is, yet. Or ever, really.

When Jason starts to slump in his lap, Slade takes over, fucking up into him, bouncing him up and down and grinding into that same sore spot inside of the kid until he finally gets off with a groan spilling against the shell of Jason's ear. His teeth grazing against the lobe, the stubble across his face scraping deliciously against Jason's clean shaven cheeks. There's a sigh, a soft one, one that nearly disappears on his own inhale of contentment.

It feels like a breather, a break in their day, in the wake of preparations to be made to bring their militia from South America back on to Gotham soil. There's still so much to do to have it all come together the way it needs to.

When Slade opens his eye, it is the Arkham Knight gazing past him for the clock blinking its bright red neon numbers by the bed. It's all focus, and Deathstroke respects that if nothing else.


End file.
